To Carry the Horn Page 8

  Gwyn waited for everyone to settle. “Many of you met with me earlier today in preliminary discussion, but now I ask you to begin again, in an orderly fashion, so that we may all dwell upon events and perhaps discover the truth of what has happened. Only then can we make sound plans for action.”

  Into the awkward silence Idris said, “Did anyone see anything unusual before Iolo’s murder?”

  Gwyn nodded. “Yes, not all of you witnessed that. Who first saw the whirlwind?”

  Rhys spoke up. “When the hounds stopped moving forward, I turned back to see why. Iolo was looking at the Thirty Acre Wood, and I saw this black shape swirling out toward him.”

  “How did Iolo see it first? Did anyone here see it sooner?”

  A woman on the outskirts declared, “It seemed to me that Iolo heard it, because I saw his head lift before he turned. Something caught his attention.”

  A man spoke up. “There was a snap, like a breaking stick, just inside the woods. I was close to it and heard it plainly. I looked to see what it was, expecting a rider or perhaps a deer, but saw no one, only the sudden whirlwind.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. Did anyone else see the start of things?” No reply.

  Gwyn continued. “I’ll supply the next portion. I saw the whirlwind come straight to Iolo. It was black and higher than a man on a horse. The hounds set up a baying and growling, but Iolo didn’t move or speak.”

  He paused. This is when George would have arrived, he realized. “The whirlwind enveloped Iolo and pulled him from his horse. The horse bolted, and I couldn’t see what happened on the ground. Can anyone tell us?”

  Idris spoke up. “Something flashed within the whirlwind, as if from steel, and there was blood. It rose and continued east over the fold of land where we lost sight of it, and Iolo’s body was left behind.”

  Rhys added, “Most of the pack were excited but being leaderless they stayed in place. Three couple, however went off in pursuit, giving tongue. Two couple turned before reaching the eastern covert, and the other couple entered the woods…”

  “Where I found them running mute and headed them back to the pack,” George said.

  Another woman spoke from the outer ring. “I rode after Iolo’s horse, who was frantic, and brought her back.”

  “Was the horse injured?” Ceridwen asked.

  “There were scrapes on the saddle, but I saw no blood. I don’t think the whirlwind injured the horse, at least not directly.”

  Gwyn paused a moment to consider. “So, this was the death. What can we learn from this?”

  George asked, “What was the stick that broke? Has anyone looked into the woods there to see if any trace of the whirlwind or maybe some less formless enemy can be found?”

  Idris replied. “Nothing’s yet been done in that regard. It would be good to look further in the morning.”

  George said, “If you happen to have bloodhounds, perhaps they’d be helpful. Scent can linger for a day or two.”

  Gwyn said to the assembly, “He means a lymer or other trailing hound.” He looked over at Rhys, questioningly.

  “Yes, we have three we can use. The lutins keep them.”

  Gwyn concluded, “Then we have a clear action. Idris, Thomas Kethin, Rhys, and George will make a band at first light, with tracking hounds, to look over the edge of Thirty Acre Woods where the whirlwind was first seen. Rhian, please join them.” She nodded silently, eyes wide and back straight with pride at being included.

  Gwyn was pleased. This sort of decision would be appropriate while not revealing any of his suspicions prematurely. Still, it would seem unnatural not to discuss enemies in this open group. He must be careful not to let the conversation stray.

  “Next,” he continued, “Who is our foe? I thought it might be an enemy of Iolo’s, but this note,” waving the square of parchment, “declares otherwise.”

  George leaned over Idris and asked to see the note, and Idris passed it back to him.

  He looked it over and said, “I can’t speak to motive, but we have several physical clues that might help. This parchment appears to have older writing underneath scraped away which could provide a clue about where it originated. The marks on the saddle, the wounds on the huntsman, and the way the hands were tied and hung, all might be helpful if looked at closely.”

  Useful boy, Gwyn thought. Keep them focused on physical clues, not motives.

  Ceridwen said, “There’s also a question of access. Who was at the hunt and in plain sight, who was here and not therefore at the hunt, and who isn’t on either list? Who could hang something on the gates and not be noticed, and when were the gates last seen empty? Who can’t account for their whereabouts at various times of interest, once you identify what those times are?”

  Creiddylad spoke for the first time. “The motive seems clear enough. Someone wants to stop the hunt.”

  Gwyn regarded her expressionlessly. Odd. Surely someone also wanted him dead. Which was more important to her?

  “Yes, my dear,” he said, “but that’s rather unspecific.”

  Ceridwen said, “As your kinsman suggested, looking at this logically will narrow the alternatives. Taking the note as it stands, Iolo doesn’t represent your ‘hands’ in all of your duties, but only in one: the hunt. Now that we are but two weeks from Nos Galan Gaeaf, I think the simplest and likeliest motive visible here is to undermine your chief responsibility, the foundation of your rule, killing you as well if possible.”

  Creiddylad looked away, tight-lipped, as if in disagreement.

  Time to put a stop to this speculation, Gwyn thought.

  “I agree with this reasoning. The meaning of taking my head is obvious, but the reference to my heart is clearly symbolic, like my hands. I would like to know who’s meant, with some urgency.”

  “Just as importantly for all of us,” Ceridwen said, “how will you hunt the hounds?”

  “I have some thoughts on that subject which I will share with all of you later.” No one looked pleased at his evasion, except Creiddylad who seemed blandly unconcerned. He narrowed his eyes at that.

  “Ceridwen, I’d like George to go with you tonight, to look carefully at the injuries before tomorrow’s ceremony.”

  “As you wish,” she replied, regarding George with an appraising gaze.

  Gwyn stood and addressed the assembled guests. “We’ll honor Iolo ap Huw at dusk tomorrow. For now, let’s get what rest we can. Thank you all.”

  The meeting broke up as people rose from their seats and either departed or clustered together in small groups for further discussion.

  As they left the council room, George turned to Ceridwen who stood, waiting for him. At her gesture, Rhian joined them. He was glad to have her name, since she’d been too far from him at dinner to have been introduced. “Ma’am, I’m sorry my words made work for you. How can I help?”

  She replied serenely. “My lord Gwyn no doubt sought to combine these activities into a suitable bundle, since I serve him both as scholar and healer. Thus I can bring you to see Iolo’s body, and take notes as well. My student here,” smiling down at Rhian, “. . . can make herself useful, I’m sure.”

  The three of them went first to inspect Iolo’s horse and saddle. Rhian led the way to the same stable George had already seen. They each picked up a lamp from a table near the entrance and lit it.

  As they walked down the main aisle, George looked for Mosby’s stall. His eye was caught about halfway down by a piece of wood with a charcoal sketch of a rampant lion hung on a stall door, and he walked over to peer in. Mosby stood quietly, dozing. George continued on without rousing him.

  A groom, disturbed by their lights, came to meet them, and Ceridwen explained quietly what she wanted. He brought them first to look at Iolo’s horse, a chestnut mare with a wide blaze. The groom led her into the aisle where there was less danger of fire than in the stall, and they hung their lamps on high hooks, placed for that purpose.

  All three visitors checked her over but she seem
ed none the worse for her ordeal, and the groom returned her to her stall.

  Next he brought them to the tack room with Iolo’s gear, a different room from the one George’s chest occupied. Iolo had two chests, each marked with a straight hunting horn. The groom opened the one on top, and brought out the saddle and bridle for them, then left.

  “See, they’ve been cleaned already,” Rhian said. The bridle bore no marks, but the offside saddle skirt did show scratches, as the woman at council had declared. It was hard to say what they were.

  “Did Iolo wear spurs?” George asked Rhian.

  “Yes, dull ones.”

  To Ceridwen he said, “See, some of this may be his spur as he’s dragged from the horse, but what about the rest? There’s one track here like three parallel claws.”

  Ceridwen bent over the saddle and looked carefully. She reached through slits on the side of her blue gown and petticoat, and pulled out a small notebook from the pocket tied to her waist underneath. Sheets of paper were strapped across the middle, and the cover held a fountain pen and some loose wipes in a packet. She sketched a copy of the saddle’s marks, with some notes.

  The groom returned, bringing another lutin with him. “He cleaned the saddle and horse. I thought you’d want to speak with him.”

  Ceridwen thanked him, then questioned the second groom. “Are these marks on the saddle skirt new?”

  “They weren’t there when I cleaned it yesterday.”

  “Was there any dirt or blood today, anything besides these marks?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “What about the horse?”

  “She was dirty from carrying the body, but that was all.”

  Ceridwen put the notebook away and let the grooms escort them out of the stable, taking their lamps from them as they departed.

  It was mid-evening and dark, but enough light came through the windows of the buildings in the yard that they had no difficulty following the paths between them.

  Ceridwen led them up the same lane as the stable but on the other side of the kennels. On the other side, well away from the manor, a few buildings were grouped together, isolated on either side from their neighbors. She explained as they walked. “Here’s our infirmary, where we treat the sick or wounded, and naturally here is also where we prepare the dead.”

  Lights were visible in one of the buildings, and they entered.

  Ceridwen looked over at Rhian. “I think this is the first time you’ve been here?” Rhian nodded and visibly swallowed.

  George felt the damp chill in the room they entered, a stone platform like a bench running at worktable height all along one wall and a prominent drain in the middle of the floor. A body lay under a coverlet on the platform. One attendant in a brown gown with a large striped apron sat at a desk writing in a ledger. She stood up at their entrance.

  “Hefina, we’ve come to look over the body. Did they also bring you the hands?”

  “Yes, my lady. Let me show you.”

  She led them to the body and pulled back the coverlet, folding it down to the feet. The body was washed and freshly clothed. The hands were in their proper place, with the sleeves of the shirt covering the joins. Cloth bound the neck, and there were no visible wounds.

  George saw a strong, fit, bearded man with brown hair gone half-gray and a darkly weathered face.

  “I see he’s prepared for the ceremony tomorrow. I must ask you to disarrange that to show us the wounds.”

  “Yes, my lady. He was covered with blood and dirt when they brought him to us, but the only wounds we found when we cleaned him were the missing hands, and the cuts across his throat which bled strongly. There were also some lesser scratches along the leg.”

  She pulled up the sleeves on either side to show clean cuts above each wrist. George remarked to Ceridwen, “One stroke each, no mis-strikes. After death, maybe?” She nodded.

  Hefina rearranged the sleeves, then unwrapped the cloth around the neck. Three deep parallel gashes crossed the throat, now neatly stitched shut. “This is what killed him,” she said.

  Ceridwen said, “These are the same spacing as the saddle cuts.” She added more illustrations and comments to her pocket notebook. “You mentioned cuts on the leg?”

  Hefina tied the neck cloth back together before continuing. “Yes, my lady.” She unfastened the breeches and pushed the material down in front to expose the top of the right thigh. The long shirt preserved Iolo’s modesty. They could see there an interrupted trace of the same three cuts on the outside of his leg, superficial in depth.

  Ceridwen asked, “Did you preserve his clothing, and the other items that accompanied the hands?”

  “One moment, my lady.” Hefina refastened Iolo’s clothes and raised the coverlet back up carefully to re-cover the body. “Idris Powell warned me, so I’ve kept everything over here.” She led them further down the stone bench. Iolo’s clothing was spread out, garment by garment, blood-stained and torn.

  A quick look showed that most of the clothes had bloodstains, primarily from the cut throat, and the ends of the sleeves were both stained and ragged. The breeches showed slashes that corresponded with the cuts on the leg, and they saw more such scratches on the upper garments where multiple layers had prevented penetration to the skin.

  Ceridwen posed a question to Rhian. “What can you tell us about these sets of triple cuts?”

  “They’re not the work of animals.”

  “And why do you say so?”

  “An animal that extends a forearm to slash narrows its claws as it draws in, and when hind legs are used to disembowel, its claws are widened as it pulls down. There might be a brief stretch of parallel lines, but not for any extended distance, and with several marks like these, on the clothing and the body and the saddle, they wouldn’t all be alike.”

  “Well reasoned,” Ceridwen said, “and I quite agree.”

  George had moved to the boots, standing upright and uncleaned. “What about these marks? They look like heel scuffs.” After years of cleaning his own gear he knew well the marks of something standing on a boot, whether a horse’s hoof or someone else’s foot.

  Rhian looked. “The mark of the heel on the left toe can’t be Iolo’s—it faces inward. And it can’t have happened before he mounted, for he would have seen it and wiped it away.”

  Ceridwen said, “So. We have a person’s foot, and unnatural claws. This isn’t just murder but deception and illusion, meant to terrify.”

  They passed along to the twine used to tie the hands. It had been cut to free them, leaving the knots intact.

  George asked, “Is there anything remarkable about the material or the knots?”

  Ceridwen picked it up and felt it carefully. “Our twine here in Annwn is made of cotton, and we buy it from your world like our other cotton goods. This isn’t cotton, but hemp, what we use in other regions where we grow it ourselves. I don’t know why one of our own should have hempen twine.”

  She handed it to Rhian. “Feel it, smell it, taste the difference.”

  She turned back to George. “The knots are ordinary, but I would assume this came from the pocket of a visitor, who knew nothing of the details of our local fiber industry and had no reason to think it different from what he was used to.”

  She continued. “This inspection of physical evidence has been very useful, in unexpected ways. It’s often fruitful to incorporate an outsider’s point of view.” This last was directed at Rhian, instructively.

  As they left the building, George suddenly realized: this all happened a few hours ago—it’s still the same day. I feel like it’s been a week since I mounted up this morning. He stopped dead in the lane for a moment, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the buildings all around him in this not-quite-Virginia, and the not-quite-humans who were claiming kinship.

  Ceridwen looked at him sympathetically. “You’ll feel much better for a night’s sleep, and morning will come early for you.” She parted from them before the house and strode off bac
k up the lane between the buildings, leaving Rhian and George to re-enter the manor through the double-doors.

  “She’s right, we’ll need our sleep. I’ll see you to your room,” Rhian said.

  She took a lamp from the hall table, lit it, and handed it to George, and lit another for herself. She brought them up the back stairs again, and left George at his door.

  He entered and closed the door behind him, suddenly glad of a refuge where he could take private stock of the events of the day. His hunt coat had been brushed and hung in the wardrobe, and he saw that the rest of his garments had somehow been cleaned during dinner. That eased his mind about clothing for tomorrow, but next time he visited, he’d have to pack a little better. I’m getting giddy, he thought, this isn’t a vacation spot. Who knows if I can ever get back home, or come back here again if I do?

  He stripped for bed, hanging his borrowed robes in the wardrobe for someone to return after he was gone. He could get used to the feel of satin and silk.

  There was a faint scratching noise against the door. Not again, he thought, but then reconsidered. I’d like the company, and at least I can count on her not to claim to be a relative. He opened the door and, as he expected, Myfanwy trotted in and hopped up to the bed via a bedside chair, making herself comfortable on the folded blanket at the foot.

  George closed the door behind her and turned the lamp down low. The bed felt wonderful. He settled in, determined to review his options, but sleep claimed him before he got past “I’ll just give it one more day.” When Myfanwy walked up the covers beside him and poked his arm expertly with her cold nose, he raised them for her without waking, and she burrowed alongside him in the warm nest.

  CHAPTER 7